The Body In the Belfry (5 page)
Read The Body In the Belfry Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
“I blame TV,” Dunne said, moving across the room to the door with the others in his wake. He stopped just before opening it.
“By the way, we haven't been able to locate Cindy's boyfriend, Dave Svenson. Do you happen to know where he is? We'd like to ask him some questions.”
Before Tom could speak, Faith stepped in front of him.
“No,” she said firmly, “We don't know where he is, but if we see him, we'll give him your message.”
All of which was perfectly true, she told herself, crossing her fingers behind her back to be on the safe side.
Since Dunne didn't say anything further, she added, “Is he a suspect then?” There was no harm in asking.
Dunne looked at her intently. “Everybody's a suspect until we have a suspect.” It was a good exit line and had never failed him yet.
MacIsaac was listening to a different drummer. A beat that kept you lingering on the doorstep.
“Oh, Tom, we'd like a list of the members of your Young People's group and anything else you think might pertain,” he said.
“No problem. I'll get everything together for you and call the station. I would also appreciate it if you could let us know when the funeral can take place. I'll be seeing the Moores this afternoon.”
Charley looked at Dunne, who obviously wanted to be in the car backing out of the driveway by now, for an answer.
“They're doing the postmortem this morning, so I'd
say Monday or Tuesday. Tuesday to be on the safe side.” He strode off purposefully.
say Monday or Tuesday. Tuesday to be on the safe side.” He strode off purposefully.
Tom shut the door.
“Faith, what can you be thinking of? And crossing your fingers behind your back does not make a lie any less of a lie, as I believe I have told you God knows how many times before!”
“Hold on a minute, Thomas! First of all, God does know what I mean and even so I know very well what makes a lie and what doesn't. And next, I didn't see you blurting out that Dave had been here for breakfast!”
Tom looked uncomfortable.
“All right, all right. I just can't believe he had anything to do with it and it may be wrongâno, I know it's wrongâbut I couldn't turn him in.”
“Besides,” Faith consoled him, “we honestly don't know where he is.”
Tom smiled. “Besides, we don't know where he is.” The smile disappeared. “What I'd like to do after I get the stuff for MacIsaac together is try to find him and get him to go to the police with me. The longer he stays away the worse it's going to look.”
“That's a great idea, Tom. I'll help you find him. He, must be with one of his friends. That's where kids always go when they run away. Not that this is your typical kid running away because he doesn't like the curfew his parents slapped on him.”
“That's exactly what I don't want you to do. Help, that is. I want you to stay as close to home as possible until they find out who did it. âThey' being the police. Honey, don't you see? I don't want anything to happen to you!”
“I don't want anything to happen to me either. And nothing will. Anyway, what can I do? Get a plaid cape and a magnifying glass? I'm simply going to keep my
eyes and ears open, that's all. But first, if I don't feed this baby, we're both going to explode.”
eyes and ears open, that's all. But first, if I don't feed this baby, we're both going to explode.”
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Dunne and Charley had come to the same conclusion that Tom and Faith had and they were on their way to the Svensons to get a list of the names of Dave's friends.
“If they don't give us much, which will probably be the case, there are. a bunch of other people we can ask,” Charley told Dunne.
“Well, the kid's all we have so far, so we'd better concentrate on finding him. Now how much of a problem is this Mrs. Fairchild going to be? I know the typeâcouldn't wait for us to leave so she could sit down with her husband and solve the case.”
MacIsaac laughed. “She's an intelligent woman. I don't think she's going to put herself in any danger. I doubt she'll interfere and Tom's as sensible as they come.”
“If she's so smart, too bad we can't recruit her to fill out all the damned reports and let us get away from the desk long enough to get a handle on things.”
The paperwork was Dunne's least favorite part of the job. He wasn't sure he had a favorite part, but he knew what he hated. His father had been a cop. He'd died of a massive coronary while chasing a suspect. Dunne was three years old and too young to hear the pros and cons of the business. His mother wanted him to go to college and he'd ended up at Columbia on a Regent's scholarship. He stayed for two years, developed a taste for elegant clothes and New Orleans jazz, then enlisted in the army. He knew he'd be going to Vietnam, and he wanted to do it on his own terms. When he returned from the war, he became a cop, just as he had always assumed he would. Anything else would have been boring. All the paperwork in the world could be balanced by ten minutes of action. He married and moved to Massachusetts,
the midway point between his family and his wife's in Maineâa bitch of a drive either way. That was. ten years ago and he'd mellowed a little. This bothered him occasionally. Without the city to keep him perpetually in a state of alert, he worried he might be losing his edge, and this Aleford case didn't promise to be much of a sharpener. It was probably the boyfriend or someone like him. One look at the girl had told him that. Of course it was these easy assumptions that always turned out to be wrong. That was the fun of it.
the midway point between his family and his wife's in Maineâa bitch of a drive either way. That was. ten years ago and he'd mellowed a little. This bothered him occasionally. Without the city to keep him perpetually in a state of alert, he worried he might be losing his edge, and this Aleford case didn't promise to be much of a sharpener. It was probably the boyfriend or someone like him. One look at the girl had told him that. Of course it was these easy assumptions that always turned out to be wrong. That was the fun of it.
“All right, Charley, we'll look for the kid, then I'll toss you for the reports.”
Charley looked a little askance.
“Just kidding.”
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Tom called the Svensons as soon as the police left, but they either didn't know where Dave was or weren't saying anything. So he started going down the list of kids who he knew were friends of Dave in the parish. At noon, he called it quits.
“He does seem to have vanished into thin air, Faith. At any rate, if someone I spoke to does know where he is, he'll get the message that I'm looking for him and maybe he'll show up here again.”
He went upstairs, donned his collar, and got ready to go to the Moores'. They had asked Faith to come, too. She wasn't sure whether it was because they wanted to talk to her about finding the body or because she, as the minister's wife, could offer support to them in their grief. She was still new at the support business and hoped it was the former. She was looking forward to some discreet inquiries into the life and death of Cindy Shepherd and it would be hard to direct the conversation that way if she was going to be limited to empathetic nods and gentle pats on the shoulder.
They left Benjamin at home with thirteen-year-old
Samantha Miller from next door, whom Faith was grooming for a life of baby-sitting bondage. She fervently hoped Samantha's shyness lasted through high school. Not that she wanted her to be unpopular, but the baby-sitter wars in Aleford made the War for Independence look like a fistfight. And the parsonage didn't have Nintendo or big screen TV to lure anyone. Sure, the snacks were superior, but Samantha, like most teenagers, preferred Doritos and diet Coke to tarte tatin and Faith's secret recipe puff pastry cheese straws.
Samantha Miller from next door, whom Faith was grooming for a life of baby-sitting bondage. She fervently hoped Samantha's shyness lasted through high school. Not that she wanted her to be unpopular, but the baby-sitter wars in Aleford made the War for Independence look like a fistfight. And the parsonage didn't have Nintendo or big screen TV to lure anyone. Sure, the snacks were superior, but Samantha, like most teenagers, preferred Doritos and diet Coke to tarte tatin and Faith's secret recipe puff pastry cheese straws.
Faith had fallen in love with the Moores' house the first time Tom took her there, and further acquaintance had served to deepen the passion. It was the most beautiful house in Aleford, just on the other side of the river and a short drive or long walk from the center, depending on one's time and temperament. Cindy had never walked once she got her license; Patricia Moore only used the car for shopping.
Behind the house the garden sloped gently down to the water. When the river flooded, some of the flower beds were submerged and the old swing set that stood on the banks was an informal yardstick of the severity of the storm. One wet spring the swings had floated back and forth with the current for a week. No one had ever thought to move them or take them down now that the children were grown. They had always been there and so they stayed. Which was the case with most things in the house. Whatever found its way inside never left. The house was a fantastic, glorious muddle of the treasure and trivia of many generations.
Patricia Moore's great-great-grandfather, Jeremiah Cox, had been a ship captain and later owner of a fleet of vessels, which, from the look of things, had never unloaded cargo except at this landing. He built the original square clapboard house, but it was Patricia's great grandfather, Martin, who added a wing here and there
as his family and fortunes increased. Now it was a rambling house, painted that buttery yellow so beloved of New Englanders, with black shutters and white trim. It looked like a smaller, slightly eccentric version of Longfellow's home in Cambridge. Patricia's grandparents had added a deep porch, which stretched across the back of the house so they could sit in their wicker rockers and watch the river go by. It wasn't screened in. Mosquitoes either never bit people in Aleford or were studiously ignored, which amounted to the same thing. Maybe everyone put repellent on behind closed doors. The first time Faith went to one of the church picnics and took out a container of Off the whole congregation looked as if she had whipped out a hip flask of hootch.
as his family and fortunes increased. Now it was a rambling house, painted that buttery yellow so beloved of New Englanders, with black shutters and white trim. It looked like a smaller, slightly eccentric version of Longfellow's home in Cambridge. Patricia's grandparents had added a deep porch, which stretched across the back of the house so they could sit in their wicker rockers and watch the river go by. It wasn't screened in. Mosquitoes either never bit people in Aleford or were studiously ignored, which amounted to the same thing. Maybe everyone put repellent on behind closed doors. The first time Faith went to one of the church picnics and took out a container of Off the whole congregation looked as if she had whipped out a hip flask of hootch.
Tom and Faith climbed the front stairs. Patricia had seen them from the window and was opening the door. She had been born in the house and as she stepped forward to greet them, Faith suddenly imagined a whole line of Patricia's ancestors making the same gestures and smiling the same warm but not gushing smile. And Patricia's grandchildren and probably great-grandchildren, too, would watch her and inherit the legacy of this graciousness. Her two children, Rob and Jenny, had. Cindy hadn't.
Faith's small apartment in New York had been the last word in stripped-down High Tech. The only color had been the flowers delivered by Madderlake each week. Yet she coveted every square inch of Patricia's house, from the patchwork quilts on the spool and four-poster beds to the china closets crammed with export porcelain, and set after set of Limoges wedding china.
They sat down in the living room and Faith stopped her usual envious inventory to listen.
Patricia started right in with plans for the funeral.
“We would have wanted things to be simple in any
case, Tom, and the fact that it was murder makes that seem all the more important somehow,” she said.
case, Tom, and the fact that it was murder makes that seem all the more important somehow,” she said.
“Not that it's something to be ashamed of, my dear,” Robert interjected.
“Oh, no,” Patricia responded, “It's just that there will probably be a lot of newspaper reporters and people who don't even know us. So we thought a brief service now and a memorial service sometime in the spring.”
Patricia looked very tired and drawn. So did Robert. Faith was used to seeing them hale and hearty. The Moores looked remarkably alike. Or perhaps, Faith mused, it was true that married people grew to look like each other. She darted a quick glance at Tom and felt reassured.
Both Robert and Patricia were tall, fair-haired Yankees with slightly equine faces and well-shaped feet and hands. Capable hands.
Patricia was an avid and knowledgeable gardener, president of the local garden club, The Evergreens. Robert was some kind of lawyer. Faith never heard him talk about his work. Only sailing. The Moores had a summer house on the coast of New Hampshire and Robert sailed every chance he could get. They were still tan from all this outdoor activity, but the tan seemed to have faded overnight, like one of the countless watercolor landscapes done by Patricia's forebears that hung on the walls, bleached from years of sun.
Even Patricia's normally crisp white round-collared blouse looked wilted. Faith always wondered where on earth Patricia found her clothes and had decided that she must have a stockpile of vintage Villager shirtwaists in Liberty cottons, John Meyer A-line wool skirts, matching sweaters, and blouses. Patricia also wore those Pappagallo pumps that look like bedroom slippers and she had on the discreet diamond and sapphire circle pin Robert had given her when they got married. Aside from
her gold wedding band and diamond solitaire from Shreve's, it was the only jewelry Faith had ever seen her wear. And the diamond was usually in a dish by the sink, since Patricia's hands were usually in the soil.
her gold wedding band and diamond solitaire from Shreve's, it was the only jewelry Faith had ever seen her wear. And the diamond was usually in a dish by the sink, since Patricia's hands were usually in the soil.
“Did Cindy have a favorite poet or piece of music that would be appropriate to the service?” Tom was asking.
Faith thought for a moment that a look of irritation crossed Robert's face before he replied, “None of which we are aware, Tom. Why don't you choose something?”
“Maybe Wordsworth? âA slumber did my spirit seal'? Or part of âTintern Abbey'?” Patricia offered.
Patricia had been an English major at Wellesley, Faith recalled.
Reaching back to her own British Poets 101, she thought “I travell'd among unknown men” would have been more appropriate, but she kept her mouth shut.
“Wordsworth has always been a family favorite,” Patricia said and stopped abruptly. She started again before Tom could say anything, “And to be perfectly honest, if Cindy had a favorite, it would undoubtedly be inappropriate if not blasphemous.”
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